She tried to reassure herself. There was always room for some simple corruption to factor into any case. It might even have been the main factor. The thieves had worn Guardia Civil uniforms and now the head of that unit was trying to steer the pietà back where it belonged.
Obliquely, that made sense. Didn’t it?
Her mind was in overdrive. To her own embarrassment, she even thought of the reward money. She knew she couldn’t accept it, but she could direct it to a charity.
Okay, that tipped her a little in favor making the transfer.
She processed information rapidly. She had more dangerous things in her life than this. Serving as a target on the streets of Paris. Going undercover many years ago against some Cuban-American hoodlums. Standing in the central square in Kiev while RPGs rolled it.
One side of her said she had survived the past so she would survive the present. The other side of her said that she was playing Russian roulette. Spin the dial too many times and you wind up dead.
She thought for another moment.
Show up alone. Well, that was one thing that wasn’t going to happen.
TWENTY-NINE
MADRID, SEPTEMBER 9, 11:49 P.M.
Stepping through the doorway of the dimly lit cocktail bar, Alex’s first impression of La Floridita was that of being transported to another decade. The bar gleamed with chrome and wood, Deco-style lamps, and elliptical tangerine-colored chairs. The bar was reminiscent of the bar of an ocean liner in the 1930s.
She looked for Rizzo, whom she had called before she left, and didn’t see him. Normally he was dependable. Surely he would be there shortly. Bad feelings started to quickly creep up on her.
The place was crowded. Not noisy, just crowded. She scanned the chrome and leather bar stools. Then she glanced across the dark nooks and crannies of the room, linked by staircases and galleries. The lighting was so dim that she could barely make out who was there. Much easier to get the drop on someone entering than someone already nestled in. Whoever had set this up had done it for a reason.
Where’s Rizzo? She didn’t like this. Not at all.
Just retrieve the artwork without getting killed.
She liked the music. It settled her. Latino pop. Mexican stuff. She recognized the raspy, sexy voice of Paulina Rubio. “Yo te Seguo Aqui.” Appropriate. The familiar tune calmed her. But her insides suddenly felt like there were a dozen butterflies on a mating dance within her chest. She had an instinct about things going the wrong way, and the instincts were on red alert right now.
Where’s Rizzo?
Then came a familiar male voice from close by. “Alex…?”
The voice floated out of thin air and above the techno beat that accompanied Paulina Rubio. Alex looked in every direction, mildly disoriented.
“Soy tu apoyo,” said the voice. “Behind you.” A hand tapped her shoulder. She jumped and turned.
Thank Heaven. It was Rizzo.
“Hello, Gian Antonio.”
He had been seated near the door, so he could cover the back of anyone he saw enter. Now he sheltered her from the crowd, a drink in his hand.
“You’re jittery,” he said, switching to English.
She exhaled. “Am I?”
“Like a dozen scared cats,” he said. “Follow me. I’d suggest a drink. Don’t tell me you don’t need one, because you do, and don’t tell me you don’t want one, because I’m getting you one, anyway.”
“All right,” she said.
He had a wineglass in his hand. He placed a hand across her shoulders, and she didn’t object. He guided her to the bar. “They have a nice fruity cava tinto here,” he said.
“If you’re having one,” she said.
“I’m having three,” he said and gave the bartender a nod. “Maybe four if things go in the wrong direction. This is my third and I don’t like the mood of the evening.”
“Me neither,” she said.
The barman caught Rizzo’s gesture. He poured red wine quickly into a Burgundy-style glass. The wine was six euros, Rizzo gave the man a twenty and didn’t look for change. Alex thought she caught a piece of an explanation. The man also gave Rizzo something else from the bar, wrapped in a paper napkin, a plastic knife and fork or something. She couldn’t see and knew better than to ask.
“Let’s move down the bar a bit. Gives us a better vantage point,” Rizzo said, speaking English in lowered tones. “Never know what you’re going to spot.”
She followed. Rizzo found a place toward the end of the bar where they could see the door and the floor around them.
She leaned in close to him, speaking directly into his ear, and quickly brought him up to speed on the phone call she had received and why they were there. He listened carefully, asking only the most occasional quick question.
“I’m not sold on any of this, either,” he said. “Something’s wrong somewhere. Too easy.”
“Civil Guard. Can I trust them?”
“You shouldn’t trust anyone,” he answered. “It’s bad for your health. Didn’t your mother teach you that?”
“I trust you.”
“I’m an exception,” he said. “I’m a Roman but I have Sicilian blood.”
“I thought your family was from the north of Italy. That’s what you said in Paris.”
“They are from the north. Everyone from the north is from the south. FIAT plant at Torino. An entire generation migrated north to build cars that don’t work very well. Look, it’ll probably be okay tonight. I’ll cover you closely.”
“Thanks.”
“Whatever you do, when you get close to their police car, be careful. If there’s a door or trunk to open, insist that someone else do it. The only thing you want to touch is the clammy old artwork, and you want to touch that as little as possible. You have gloves?”
“No.”
“I do. Here. I brought them for you.” He fished into his pocket and came out with a pair of latex gloves, the kind used for kitchen work
“Do you think of everything?” she asked.
“Of course not. But I stopped by the restaurant of my hotel and stole these. Actually, they gave them to me but what does it matter? Can never be too careful,” he said, his brown eyes sliding sideways, working the room. “I bought you another present too,” he said. “Don’t say no, and relax, it’s not a peignoir.”
He made a surreptitious movement with his free hand, as if to pass something to her out of everyone’s sight. She took the cue and reached. It was the package in the paper napkin.
Their eyes met. She looked down. He had acquired an ice pick from the bar. She took it and the hint that went with it.
“If you have trouble on the street,” he said gently, “go for the eyes or the jugular. If you’re down low, an upstroke toward the groin would do the trick. I would have brought you a gun if I’d had time,” he said. “But short notice, you know?”
“I know. But thank you,” she said again. She lifted her glass and offered it toward his. “Cheers,” she said as she tucked the pick into her pocket. It was stubby and sharp. It had a wooden handle and four inch spike.
A slight smile. “Cheers,” he answered. “An ice pick’s a handy thing to carry. There’s not a bus or a truck you can’t bring to a halt with the proper use of one of those, not to mention the driver. And so much classier than a gun, right?”
“Right,” she said. She drank.
“Salud,” he said.
“Salud.”
Alex sipped. Rizzo quaffed. He was right. The wine was outstanding. Then something clicked in from earlier in the evening, on the phone, when Rizzo had said that he knew the place. Obviously, he knew it well and the barman probably knew him.
“So how are you enjoying retirement?” she asked finally.
“Never been busier,” he said.
“Your American ‘interests’?” she asked.
“You could say that,” he said. “Bless your government. They’ll keep me working till I’m a hundred years old because they can’t go a week without having some small political, diplomatic, or security crisis here in Europe. So may the incompetence and mismanagement of your government continue forever. If I live long enough I’ll be a rich old man.”